


We Go On Heart Beats Strong

by mytimehaspassed



Category: Trinity (TV 2009)
Genre: M/M, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-01
Updated: 2011-02-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 06:24:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,336
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/234875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mytimehaspassed/pseuds/mytimehaspassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ross leaves at midnight and doesn’t come back until the early morning, his face black and swollen, his knuckles bloody and bruised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Go On Heart Beats Strong

**WE GO ON HEART BEATS STRONG**  
TRINITY  
Jonty/Ross  
 **WARNINGS** : AU; spoilers up until the end of 1.02  
[](http://liketheroad.livejournal.com/profile)[ **liketheroad**](http://liketheroad.livejournal.com/) created the [Ross Lives](http://smallacts.livejournal.com/29834.html) genre, I am only playing in it  
Accompanies [this](http://mytimehaspassed.livejournal.com/237277.html) fanmix

  
Ross leaves at midnight and doesn’t come back until the early morning, his face black and swollen, his knuckles bloody and bruised. Jonty turns over when Ross slips underneath the duvet, his nose finding the crook of Jonty’s neck. He says Ross’ name, but Ross won’t let him say anything else, smearing blood across Jonty’s cheek to put his fingers on Jonty’s mouth.

“I did it,” Ross whispers, and his shoes leave stripes of mud on the sheets.

“I did it,” he says, and he feels cold beneath his hoodie.

And Jonty wants to ask what, wants to ask what’s happened, what’s wrong, wants to hold Ross to him and kiss his forehead because if this is another one of Ross’ funny turns, if this means Jonty is going to lose Ross, even if only for a moment, well. Jonty’s just not sure how he could do that again.

Ross fits his lips against Jonty’s lips and kisses him as if he’s dying, his hands on the back of Jonty’s head, his thumbs smearing his cheeks, pulling in and pulling closer and breathing for him.

“We need to leave,” Ross says, and it’s desperate and it’s urgent and Jonty is full of shock, but he doesn’t show it.

“When?” Jonty says, and Ross pulls him closer.

***

They board a train in the afternoon and Ross tells him everything.

Jonty can’t make sense of most of it, won’t make sense, won’t begin to ask why Ross has put himself through all this nonsense when he could have just asked Jonty a long time ago and they could have run like they’re running now, run as far away as they can with the money Jonty has in his accounts, with the money Ross has borrowed from his squandering brother and his parent’s trust funds. Jonty will miss the pomp and fanfare of the Dandelion Club, will miss Dorian for all his antics, but he would have missed Ross the most if Ross had stayed.

Jonty drinks black coffee on the train, his hands shaking when he sets down the cup on its saucer. Ross tells him everything about the project, tells him everything except what Jonty wants to know. “What were they going to do with you?”

And Ross looks at him, drawing in one stuttering breath, but he doesn’t answer.

“Ross,” Jonty says, and moves his shaking hand to Ross’, the jumble of the train pressing them closer together. “What would they have done?”

And Jonty asks, even though he has a pretty good idea, the way Ross had come back with leaves in his hair, blood on his face, blood on his hands, as if he had started fighting and just couldn’t stop. The way Ross had come back pale and out of sorts, out of his depth, his muddy clothes and the fingers he had slipped around Jonty, scrabbling for warmth or something like it. Ross wanted Jonty and nothing else and Jonty had been happy to oblige.

“They would have killed me,” Ross says, and grips Jonty’s palm to his, won’t let go. “They would have killed me and made it look like suicide, I saw their plans. I,” and here he falters. “I left a note with Charlotte Arc just in case.”

“Charlotte Arc?” Jonty says. “That First Year of Dorian’s?”

“Yes,” Ross says. “I met her in the chapel, she seemed quite nice.”

“Why her?” Jonty says, and they both know that he’s really saying, Why not me?

Ross leans in to kiss him, long and slow and deliberate, and when he stops, he presses his forehead to Jonty’s. “You would have been the first place they’d have looked.” And his voice is hoarse, with fear or emotion or overuse, his lips mouthing words on Jonty’s skin.

He kisses Jonty again and says, “You’re my only weakness.”

And Jonty kisses him back.

***

Jonty dreams of hourglass shaped poison and the high, vaulted ceiling of the chapel, Ross lying on the ground with a wet halo around his head, his body lifeless and cold. He wakes up with his head pillowed against Ross’ shoulder, their hands curled together. He kisses Ross without waking him up and slips out of the compartment, walks down the long hallway to the dining car. He gets himself another coffee and rubs his eyes until he sees stars.

A long time ago, Ross had mentioned a vacation to France, and Jonty had told him that one of his Mummy’s first cousins owned a villa somewhere in the north, and that there was an open invitation should he ever be in town. They had planned to go the summer after their senior year, before Jonty’s father gave him an executive job in the company his grandfather had built, before Ross went to America to study. They had planned to go as a laugh, to sunbathe and swim in the pool and accost pretty French boys and dance in clubs and spend an inordinate amount of money on rash touristy things.

Now, it feels more like an escape.

And it kind of seems trivial, the plans they used to make late at night in bed, when Ross would stroke his fingers down Jonty’s chest and follow it with his mouth, when Jonty would smile and laugh and arch his body under Ross’ tongue and Ross would talk about all the boys they would meet in France and how he just might find one pretty enough to leave Jonty for and Jonty would shut him up by pushing his head down lower. Jonty used to love nights like that.

Jonty used to love it when Ross was his and his alone.

Jonty finishes his coffee and makes his way back to their compartment, walking slowly in the chill of the early morning, pulling his jacket tighter around himself. He almost makes it to the door before he hears the shouting, Ross’ voice loud and unwavering. He yanks open the partition and sees Ross curled in on himself, shaking and crying and terrified. Jonty stands there for a moment, frozen, breathless, until Ross cries out again. He gathers Ross into his arms and whispers unintelligible words, feeling the heat from Ross’ body pool into his. Jonty stills his shaking, runs his fingers through Ross’ hair, keeps kissing him in the same spot over and over until Ross finally looks at him again, his face so close to Jonty’s.

“Where were you?” He says, and his voice is rusty and dry and whiskey-laden. “Why did you leave?”

And Jonty can’t say anything but “I’m sorry,” over and over and over again, his fingers on Ross’ back, his mouth on the corner of Ross’ mouth.

Jonty feels something inside of him, something inside of him that sharpens and grows.

***

From the train, they take a taxi to the villa, winding up roads with Jonty’s perfect accent. Ross keeps quiet next to him, slipping the hood of his jacket over his head and leaning against the window. The driver keeps looking in the rearview, his eyes old and tired and sweeping over them. Jonty’s hand is so tight on Ross’, that he’s afraid it might break.

There’s a little dirt road that takes them up to the front door, where Jonty finds a key buried under a potted plant in the garden. He had been here as a child, had played summer games of cricket and squash just over the stone wall in the back, had kissed one of the local boys behind the shed, and one of his third cousins had shown him the key, for sneaking out in the middle of the night and getting drunk at one of the local pubs, a place Jonty’s mum would never allow him to be seen in. He turns the lock now, and pushes the door open, allowing the musty smell of disuse to waft over them.

The house was always boarded up in the fall, made ready for the winter to come, while Jonty’s extended family took vacations halfway across the world in warmer climates. Jonty was still holding Ross’ hand, and he pulls him inside, past the sheeted furniture and boarded windows, up the long, wooden staircase to the master bedroom. He sits Ross on the bed and says, “Here now,” unzipping Ross’ hoodie and pushing it from his shoulders.

“Why don’t I draw you a bath, love?” Jonty kisses the corner of Ross’ mouth, his palm on the side of Ross’ neck, his thumb curving around Ross’ cheekbone. “Would you like that?”

Ross doesn’t answer, his eyes on the wall behind Jonty’s head, blank.

“Ross?” Jonty says, and sighs when nothing seems forthcoming.

He goes to the adjoining bathroom and turns on the tap for the bath, feeling the temperature with his fingers, watching the water rise until it almost hits the rim. The claw-footed tub is ancient, but clean, and the water steams inside, looking especially inviting. He goes back to the bedroom to gather Ross in his arms, shedding the rest of Ross’ clothing as they walk towards the tub.

“C’mon, babe,” Jonty says, and sits him on the edge while Jonty takes his own shirt off, pushes his trousers down, and maneuvers them both inside the bath.

Ross leans back against Jonty’s chest, his eyes on the ceiling, his arms on the rim of the tub. Jonty steeples his fingers around Ross, slipping lower into the water, breathing in the heat and clean smell of the water and says, “Alright?”

And Ross doesn’t even say anything when Jonty begins to cry.

***

They sleep in the massive bed restlessly; Ross curled around Jonty like a lifeline, his knuckles white with effort, his legs entwined with Jonty’s legs, his mouth wet on Jonty’s neck. Ross hums in his sleep, the same song he had sung to Charlotte Arc the day of his funny turn, the same song like the sting of Jonty’s slap, hummed against Jonty’s jaw.

Jonty can feel Ross’ heart racing like a horse beneath him.

***

In the morning, Jonty makes tea and toast with jam, gliding fluently around the kitchen, flipping through the telly for anything with their faces on it. Jonty’s parents might have heard about their disappearance by now, might be worried sick, but Ross’ brother would only care for the publicity it would give him, the money for search efforts. The French parlances grate on Jonty’s nerves, the fast back-and-forth of the newscasters.

Nothing jumps out, anyway.

Ross wakes up some time after Jonty finishes off his third slice of toast, and he’s his old self again, smiling at Jonty, pressing a kiss behind Jonty’s left ear as he passes by, sliding his arms around Jonty’s torso when he takes a sip of Jonty’s tea. He seems quiet and happy and Ross, and Jonty leans into him when they kiss, soft, still, not breathing until Ross lets him go.

They go into town for lunch, braving the rain and side streets full of women with baskets of flowers, following the smells of baking bread. Stopping at one of the cafes that Jonty remembers, they sit outside and order coffee and croquet-monsieurs with pommes frites and watch the children run in their rubber galoshes, jumping in puddles and splashing their au pairs with mud. Ross laughs and it’s musical, and Jonty takes his hand across the small space between them, jostling the coffee in his cup so it makes a ring on the table.

Ross looks at him and says, “Thanks,” his palm warm on Jonty’s.

And Jonty only smiles back, even if it’s because he’s not sure if he could find his voice.

***

They had met at Trinity, at Dorian’s behest. If asked, Dorian always attributes it to Jonty’s surly pining and sudden interest in rowing, and the fact that he couldn’t stand it when Jonty would drag him to the competitions, with eyes only for Ross’ long-armed strokes through the water. Dorian had introduced them and Ross had smiled and Jonty had never looked back.

The first time they had kissed, it was after one of the Dandelion Club’s extravagant parties, where Jonty was a bit pissed and Ross had wrapped a strong arm around his shoulders to keep him from falling, taking him back to Jonty’s room where Jonty had asked Ross to stay. Ross was a gentleman, and maybe Jonty had expected nothing less, but he had led him to the bed, anyway, backing up to it until his knees hit the edge, pulling Ross closer. Jonty had made the first move, his lips soft on Ross’, his fingers gripped tight into fists on Ross’ gold vest.

Ross had pulled back and said Jonty’s name, sounding like a warning or a promise or something equally as close, and Jonty had sighed and said, “Alright, then. Just sleep, yeah?”

And Ross had sighed, as well, sounding chaste and regretful, his nose finding Jonty’s cheek, his forehead against Jonty’s temple. “Sorry,” he said, and Jonty had laughed.

Ross had slept on the couch that night, and Jonty had woken up with a terrible hangover, and Ross had brought him water and made him eggy bread and Jonty had eaten three servings and then kissed him until he couldn’t breathe.

And Ross had shown him, afterwards, his tattoo of blades, lying on his stomach on Jonty’s bed so Jonty could get a good look, Ross shivering when Jonty’s fingers outlined the two oars, warm. Ross had gotten it on a dare a couple of years ago, had to hide it from his parents for weeks, he said, and Jonty had kissed the space where his fingers touched and said, “I like it. It suits you.”

And Ross had looked at him like it was the nicest thing that Jonty had ever said.


End file.
